God Wills It
by Mercury Gray
Summary: It was always in the darkest parts of the night when he realized how alone he really was. It had not always been so-once upon a time he had had companions. Once upon a time he might have become a great king. Baldwin of Jerusalem muses on a life lost.


God Wills It: A Kingdom of Heaven fanfic

* * *

It was always in the darkest parts of the night when he realized how alone he really was, how much he was suffering. It had not always been so- once upon a time he had had friends and companions. Once upon a time he might have been married, and become a great king, as his father was. But that was gone now. And the woman he would have married had been given to another.

The world had seemed so simple when he still had dreams. At eleven, there is nothing you dream that cannot succeed. At eleven, there is no little love in your heart for anything you profess to love. And he loved her beyond a little; he loved her very, very much, perhaps, as the poets say, with his whole soul.

They played together often as children, he the knight and she the lady in need of saving. He would rescue her from the dragon (played oftentimes by his dog, Capricoram) and then they would escape to his castle in Jerusalem and he would feed her sweets and she would read him poetry, what knights and ladies always did at the end of stories. Sharing favors, the poets called it. Baldwin always thought that was a strange name for it. But that was what Parcecleux had said it meant; he had asked the troubadour to explain it once and after a glance at his mother, that was what the singer had said.

"We will be married, and have a dozen children!" she suggested one day, as they played castle under the rose arbor in the garden. Today's adventure had been fighting off the Saracen horde who had taken her captive. (The Saracens had been played very convincingly by her nursemaids, who were still looking for them all over the palace.) Baldwin wrinkled his nose, trying to not seem interested. "But not until we're older," she amended, trying to get him back into her game.

"Who says we will get married?" Baldwin asked, looking at her and fiddling with a flower, plucking it off the arbor and twisting the petals between his fingers.

"Mama does." She leaned in closer to him, ready to tell a great secret. "At night, after I am in bed and she thinks I am asleep, she sits by my bedside and strokes my hair and says, 'Daughter, one day you will marry the King of Jerusalem. You could not have been so beautiful to no end. And he will be handsome, too. You will have dozens of children and they will all be princes.' I do not think it would be so bad to marry you, Baldwin. Do you?"

Baldwin wanted to change the subject- all this talk of marriage was making him feel like a girl. "Handsome like Lord Godfrey or Lord Tiberias?" he asked, for both were men he admired very much, and would like very much to be like when he got older.

It was her turn to wrinkle her nose; no eleven year old girl knows much of handsomeness, nor cares to discuss it with the boy she likes. "I know not," she said.

--

"Father, will I marry Alais?" Baldwin had asked his father that night at dinner.

"Who told you that?" Almaric of Jerusalem asked, chewing thoughtfully on his mutton and glancing first at his son and then at his advisor, William of Tyre.

"Alais says her mother spoke to her of it when she was asleep and thought she could not hear her," Baldwin explained innocently. Almaric chuckled.

"It would not be a bad match," Tiberias suggested. "Hilary is Count of Messina, and controls the sea passages here. To have a man like that as the king's father-in-law would be a good alliance for Jerusalem."

"We will think on it, Baldwin," Almaric said with a smile. He glanced at his son and studied the boy a moment. "Do you like Alais of Messina, Baldwin? Do you think her pretty?"

Baldwin thought about this for a moment, not sure if he wanted to confide something like this in his father. "Yes," He admitted. "I think she is very pretty. And smart." he added, for good measure. Almaric and the other counselors laughed.

"Remember that when you marry, my son," Almaric reminded him, going back to his dinner, "It may not be for love. And she may be ugly, or she may be pretty, smart or stupid, but what she most definitely will be is either rich, or powerful."

"Why, Papa?" Baldwin asked.

"That is the way of the world, Baldwin. Kings marry for power."

Or it not at all, Baldwin thought miserably to himself. Twelve years since that night had taken place. Eleven years since they had found out…

He hated to think on that. Eleven years of this! And it had started so simply!

He had been playing in the yard with the other boys. Pinching each other. Baldwin was so proud of himself- no matter how hard they pinched, he felt nothing. He was invincible! Like Achilles, or Hector, or any of the other Greek heroes his tutor was making him read about, he could not be harmed! But then Doctor William, the man from Tyre who knew so much about birds and beasts and alchemy and all the manner of things about the body dragged him inside, away from his playmates. In front of Almaric William took him, and, while the son talked with the father, the doctor pricked Baldwin's arm with a small knife when he was looking away.

Baldwin watched his father's eyes grow sad. He looked at his arm and saw that he was bleeding. "I didn't feel a thing!" He pronounced, looking back at his father. "Father, are you not proud of me? Will I not be a great knight?"

It was, the older Baldwin reflected mournfully, the first and only time he had ever seen his father weep.

But Almaric never told his son why he cried. William of Tyre kept his peace, too. And the next year his father died, and Baldwin was crowned king. Too busy for playmates now, his councilors said when he asked to speak with Alais. Too busy for anything but business. And study, too, lots of study, of everything from politics to war tactics to fighting. And he fought many battles, both real and imagined. When he was not with the Army fighting Saladin in person, he was fighting Saladin in his mind in the practice courts. He arranged for Alais to watch him, to meet him afterwards in secret, sharing their thoughts as they had when they were young. Oh, they were happy then! His heart was filled with gladness when he saw her watching him. He knew now that this was love.

But he was beginning then to know something was not right- a large sore had formed on his arm, red and festering where his sweat hit it. He had been keeping it hidden for a while, and no one else knew but him. Ah, Jesu, it was hot that day! He pushed up his sleeves, trying not to drop his sword from his sweaty hands, and William had seen his arm. Then the whole courtyard was in an uproar, and his 

servants and advisors were dragging him inside, away from the other boys, away from the girls who watched from the balcony. He saw Alais in a window above, looking down on him. She was crying.

And she had every right to cry. She did not come to their next meeting, and then he was barred from her chambers. Storming into the office of his Regent, Count Raymond of Tripoli, Baldwin wanted answers.

"Where is Alais?" He shouted at the man who was his guardian and captor. Raymond was the one who forbade him to go out with the other boys.

"Her father was recalled to Messina by William of Sicily, to perform his duties as Count and Marshal of the City. She went with him, as a good daughter should." Raymond seemed to have little time for the concerns of his boy-king.

"We are still to be married?" Baldwin asked; He knew that marriage contracts had once been in the making under his father.

"Count Hiliary broke those contracts a month ago, King Baldwin," Raymond said, rising to his feet.

"WHY?" Baldwin shouted- even in his memory, his voice was hysteric, too high for a boy of sixteen. "I am the King of Jerusalem, Count of Ascalon and Jaffa, Lord of Sidon! I own more land than most of the men in Europe! They cannot refuse me!"

Raymond looked tired- being a Regent for a boy-king is serious work. "How is your arm, Baldwin?" he asked softly, looking down at the parchments that littered his desk.

Baldwin clutched his arm, taken aback- the sore was bigger, spreading down to his hand, threatening to engulf it. What had that to do with anything? "Why do you ask?" he queried, cautious.

Raymond shook his head and went back to work. "Why?" asked Baldwin again, and then, louder, "WHY?" His voice was the only thing he could hear inside his memory, only his voice shouting, "What is WRONG with me?"

The leprosy, the doctors told him. God's Plague upon mankind. His nurse Pia cried and prayed, Why, God, what has this boy done, but there was no stopping it. The sore spread to his hand, fusing his fingers together until the hand that wore his father's cabochon ruby signet was nothing more than a diseased stump, and had to be wrapped to ward away the smell and the sight of it. His friends had pulled away from him, sick at the sight of his festering flesh.

Oh, his teenage years were the worst. He would go to sleep exhausted and wake up in the morning more tired than he had been before, his flesh decaying before his eyes. If, of course, he slept at all. He was a growing boy, and he did at night what growing boys do. It was not a happy thing as it is for some, and he would grunt and come and wake up, only to fall back asleep crying, knowing he would never know a real woman's touch or flesh. No woman would ever want a hideous face to match his own. No one ever loved enough for that.

To be young again, Baldwin thought as he looked through the eye holes of his silver mask. To be young, and hopeful, and have dreams. But all that was lost to him, along with his face and any expectations that he might one day be handsome. Ah, Alais, where are you now? he wondered. Who did your mother make you marry? Was he handsome?

Whoever he was, I hope you did not love him, whispered a dark and jealous part of his heart.

* * *

Men come and go in the city of Jerusalem, new lords and knights waiting to prove their mettle against the Saracens, waiting to obey the Pope and kill the infidels that threatened the Holy City. As was his custom, Baldwin received the nobles, accepting their posturing and promises with practiced posturing of his own. How I envy them, he thought to himself, watching the crowd mill about in the courtyard, good, strong knights from France and England, Germany and Spain, tall men who could stand without feeling weak, ride a horse without collapsing of exhaustion, smite an enemy without wondering if their grip was too infirm to hold a sword. Men older than he, and still stronger, men not suffering as he was. Good God, even Tiberias would best him in a fight, and he nearly thirty years older! Twenty six, and what had he to show for it? Only this kingdom which would be dust after he was gone. He had no heir, and he 

knew little Baldwin, Sibylla's son, would not last long as king with Guy as his stepfather and probably his regent.

Now a few wives were approaching him – brave women, to come here with their husbands, Baldwin thought to himself. They were introduced and all curtseyed; he waved one gloved hand at them, gesturing that he was pleased and nodding his head. No words were needed: he was, after all, a king. As the group left, he saw one woman remained behind, wondering if she could speak with him.

"Approach," he said, almost bored, and she did, cursteying again. Then she looked up at him, locking his gaze with her own. Did he know her?

"Do you not recognize me, Baldwin of Jerusalem? I have not changed so much since you last saw me."

The voice was like an angel's kiss! He recognized the face at last. "Alais..." Baldwin managed, suddenly filled with shame. That she should be here, and seeing him like this! If he could have, he would have blushed in shame. Alas that the skin of his cheeks had receded away.

"Baldwin," she said, smiling to hear his voice again. Was it a smile, truely? She was...happy to see him? She approached still further, now on the steps to his dais. No one was really paying attention to him now, anyway. Across the courtyard, Guy was holding his own little court, Reynard of Chatillon, the brute, standing beside him. Those men would be trouble soon enough, he thought to himself with a sigh. But enough of them- Alais awaited him.

"Come," he said, rising from his chair, the pain immense as the cloth of his robes grated against his skin. "Let us go away, where it is quiet, and we will talk alone."

A servant came forward with a magnificently carved cane, but Alais brushed him away, letting Baldwin take her own arm as they went back to his receiving rooms, away from the hustle and bustle of the courtyard and the knights.

Once seated in his rooms above the courtyard, he asked his crucial question."Why are you here?" He knew his voice must have sounded strange to her from behind his mask.

"My husband comes to make the Crusade. Roger of Syracuse."

"I know the name," Baldwin replied. He'd received the man that morning- a tall, ill-looking fellow. Handsome enough, but with an evil look about him. "And you come with him, as a good wife should. I 

will introduce you to Sybilla, she will love to talk with you," He began, beckoning a servant over to his chair.

"I did not come to talk to Sybilla," Alais said, laying her hand on his arm to stay him; how effortlessly she touched him! Not even his servants liked to do that. "Or keep my husband company," she added darkly.

Baldwin settled back into his chair. "You always said you wanted children," He remembered. "Do you... have any?" He asked delicately.

Alais looked sad. "Three," she replied. "All stillborn. I named the boys for you," she remembered. "He doesn't like to be reminded that his wife is little better than barren," she said, looking down into the court at her husband, drinking and laughing with his fellows. "We don't speak much of them." She gave a little laugh. "And to think, I could have married you! Well, life is suffering. It is God's will."

The words broke Baldwin's heart. Yes, she could have married him – but then where would they be? Would she be happier with a cripple? He was suffering just as much as she, perhaps more. No, reasoned a part of him, not any more than she has suffered, Baldwin.

"You could not have married me, Alais," Baldwin said finally. "The mask hides a multitude of reasons why."

There was silence between them, awkwardly unfilled. "Why do you wear the mask?" she asked, and Baldwin had the urge to turn away, even though his face was hidden.

"My face is...misshapen. Deformed. The disease has eaten my skin. Beneath this," He gestured to the silver mask, "I am a monster, scarcely worthy of Christian pity. Without the mask I could not hold court, or command any respect. A monster, you see," He said with a little chuckle, "cannot be a liege lord or a king."

"You are not a monster, Baldwin. Men like my husband are monsters." She looked at his mask and smiled. "No, only a little less blessed than the rest of us. Or more," she reflected. "God's will for us is at all times mysterious." She considered this, and then remembered something. "My confessor back in France told me after I had lost my second child that it was god's will that man should at one time in his life suffer as his son did, that we would appreciate the suffering of his son more. Sometimes it is at our deaths, sometimes before. God must especially love you, Baldwin, if you have been chosen for this."

They sat for a good while in silence, and then Alais reached up to touch his mask. Baldwin did not flinch or pull away, expecting her to merely touch it, let her fingers glance along its surface. It was an object of curiosity, he knew. If it were another man wearing it, he would find it curious. But she did not touch it- her fingers found the edge of the mask, and gently pulled it away from his face.

Baldwin gasped, trying to think of what she would do- pull away in revulsion, scream and run, or merely gaze at him in sympathy and horror. Any one of those would hurt him to the core; he did not mean to scare or frighten her. Alais, however, did none of these. She merely looked at him and was silent, contemplating the flesh that was so far away from the silver perfection of his mask. A breeze ruffled past the filmy curtains at the window, and Baldwin imagined that he could feel the breeze on his face. He hadn't felt anything for quite some time. His attention was so caught by the curtain that he did not see Alais set the mask aside, nor did he see her hands reaching out to touch his face. That he did feel and he drew back in surprise.

"You cannot touch me," He said quickly, and Alais looked at him, surprised. "The doctors say I may infect another. I would not wish this..." he gestured to his misshapen lip and sunken nose, "On anyone." He swallowed nervously. "Especially you," he added.

Alais looked at him and smiled. "I would not mind being like you, Baldwin. It would save me the trouble of my husband." she studied him, and he let her, making no move to take the mask back. "I see some of the younger Baldwin still in your face. Your eyes are still the same color, you know, and your chin...it would have been a very handsome face, Baldwin. A face I would have been proud to see on my pillow every morning." She rose from her chair and, ever so gently, kissed him on the forehead. The pressure was enough that he might have grimaced, but it was a kiss- the only one he'd ever had from a woman not his family. "If you had lips, I might kiss those," Alais said sadly, and Baldwin could not help but laugh, regardless of how misshapen his face looked when he did it. The sound of his laughter made her smile, though her face was still sad. "Goodbye, Baldwin," She said, handing him back the mask.

The first time she had left him he had felt lost, confused. Now he felt..at peace. He watched her leave and then fixed the mask back on.

Deus lo volt, the crusader's cry was. God wills it. _God wills a great many silly things_, Baldwin mused, _crusades and leprosy among them_.

"Life is suffering," Baldwin repeated to himself, securely behind the mask once more. The words made sense. Whether to be a king or a peasant, man or woman, life was suffering. God wills it.

* * *

Woe is me because of my hurt! My wound is grievous and incurable. But I said, Surely this sickness and suffering and grief are mine, and I must endure, tolerate, and bear them.- Jer 10:19

For just as the sufferings of Christ are ours in abundance, so also our comfort is abundant through Christ.- 2 Cor 1:5

* * *

The troubadour Parcecleux is borrowed from another story of mine. He sounded French enough I thought it would be all right to use him again. I really don't know where this story came from, only that I wanted to create a glimmer of hope in Baldwin's life, and I thought exploring him loving a woman, losing her, and then having her back again with her reassurance that she really isn't any happier than he is would be some small consolation.


End file.
